Dramione Drabbles
by Colubrina
Summary: Several people are kind enough to regularly review my other fics and this is a series of "Happy Birthday" dramione drabbles and ficlets for them as a thank you.
1. Flowers

**Happy Birthday, Icelynne!**

. . . . . . . . . .

When the door bell rings it is, of course, Draco Malfoy.

Hermione sighs and opens the door and there he is, standing there with another bouquet in his hands. At least, she thinks to herself, he's changed it up this time. It's usually a bunch of something expensive and exotic, out of season and fragile. This time he's holding what looks like a bunch of half-wilted weeds.

She steps aside and lets him come it, takes the flowers from his hands and goes into her tiny kitchen to find something to put them in, see if she can salvage them before they die entirely. He follows her and leans against the door frame, watches her as she sets the bouquet on the counter and opens up cupboards looking for where she'd put the vase after she'd tossed out the dying remains of his last apology.

"I can't do this anymore," she says, bending down to look under the sink. "I'm tired of being your dirty little secret. We go out into muggle London so no one sees us, you don't take me around your friends – "

"I think you overestimate the number of friends I have."

" – you've never introduced me to your mother – "

"Who would hate you, and you know it. I'm trying to spare you the unpleasantness of that."

" – and this is just too hard." She's found an old mason jar from some pickles Ginny had made during her short-lived canning phase and pulls it out, holds it under the faucet and starts the water. "I can't take being something you hide away like a habit you're ashamed of. It's over. I'm done. Done, Draco."

He's still leaning there, watching her as she takes the flowers out of the damp newspaper he'd wrapped them in and puts them in the water, picks up the packet of seeds he'd wrapped in with them.

"What's this?"

It's wildflower seeds. A packet of mixed British wildflower seeds, easy for your home garden, or so the package reads, and it makes no sense to her whatsoever.

"I thought," he runs his hand through the hair falling into his eyes, looking more uncertain than she's ever seen him, "we could get a flat with a garden, plant those. Together."

"You want," she's speaking very slowly, wanting to be sure she understands, "to get a flat. With me. And plant a garden."

"If you want," he's staring over her shoulder at the dingy curtains in her window, not making eye contact.

"Not in muggle London?" she asks, feeling for the first time in so long a beam of hope that maybe – maybe – this wasn't the incredibly terrible, no-good, doomed idea she'd resigned herself to thinking it had to be.

"No," he looks at her, "wizarding London."

"I'm not good," she says, "at growing things."

He shrugs. "We can try?"

"Just," she carefully sets the jar in the window before she crosses over to him, "don't be upset if I kill everything."

"I won't," he wraps his arms around her as she tucks her head against his shoulder, "I promise."


	2. Chess

**Happy Birthday ****ladymagna1100**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione squinted at the chess set thinking how irritating chess was; she'd always found chess annoying when sober, and, as she was discovering, it was equally annoying when she was intoxicated.

"Check," Draco said, leaning back and hitting the time clock.

"I don't see why we have to use the damn time clock," she muttered. "This is not exactly tournament chess."

"I'm waiting," he smirked as she seemed to glare at him.

"Fine," she pulled her shirt off and folded her arms across her chest. "Explain to me exactly why I agreed to strip chess again."

"Because you had this amusing delusion it would be a good way to get me out of my clothes?" He took another sip from his drink. "Nice bra, by the way."

She picked up a piece and slammed it down on the board, hit the clock.

"Do the knickers match?" he asked as he idly picked up a piece, rolled it between his hands, eyebrows raised.

"Oh come _on_," she threw her hands up. "Not _again._"

He set the piece down and, hitting the clock again leaned back and whispered in gleeful anticpation, "Check."

She sighed and stood up, wiggled out of her jeans and tossed them at the floor. "Yes," she said, picking up her drink and gulping down a considerable swallow. "They match. Happy now?"

"That's no way to treat good whiskey," he said, topping off her glass. "You're supposed to sip it."

She rolled her eyes and sat back down, slouched in her chair and hiding the grin that was trying to escape. "This is unfair," she complained. "I'm down to three pieces, two articles of clothing and now you're not happy about how I drink."

"It's a game predicated on pure intellect. I'm surprised you aren't better at it." He rested his chin on one hand and smiled at her. "I do like the green satin. Very fetching."

Hermione hid her own smile as she moved one of her remaining pawns and hit the time clock. You'll win the chess, she thought to herself, but let's not kid ourselves about who's actually winning the real strategic match here. Not to change game metaphors, she mused, but I'll see you one 'let's get together for drinks' and raise you a matching bra and knickers set and we'll see who gets what she wants in the end.

Draco sat and looked at her, sipping from her whiskey glass, and moved another piece, hit the clock.

Hermione studied the board. If she went _there_ and he saw the opening it would be mate in two and they could move the real game upstairs before she got too bloody cold; Malfoy really needed to get a better central heating system. She moved the piece.

"That," Draco said with the trademark smirk that, as irritating as it had been on the boy she'd started to find irresistible on the man, "was a mistake."

"Oh?" she said innocently, looking up at him from under her lashes and watching him gloat over the board before glancing down at her toenails, carefully painted Slytherin green. "If you say so. Chess really isn't my game."


	3. Quiddich

**Happy Birthday, ****unicornusmc**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"How did I end up with an athlete for a son," Hermione moaned, tracking Scorpius on the pitch with a practiced eye. She was wrapped in three blankets, had a warming spell running, and a cup of hot tea in her hands. Still, it was November and it was cold out.

"Well, there's me," he began but her rude snort suggested she didn't actually credit their son's athleticism to his father, "and you did buy him a training broom at two. And signed him up for Pee Wee Quiddich at four, terrorizing the woman in charge of registration when she tried to insist children had to be at least five."

"And he dominated that team," Hermione's still watching the blond head as it flew back and forth across the pitch, scanning for the snitch. "That stupid woman should have let him play up."

"He was playing up."

"He was bored."

Draco can't actually argue with that; the kid had been the best player on the team by a noticeable margin and, of course, there had been the mooning incident. A bored Scorpius is a Scorpius in trouble. "And then you signed him up for quiddich camp all summer. Quiddich camp with kids three years older than he is."

"He had fun," Hermione grabbed his arm and he began to pay closer attention. Ah, Scorp had spotted the snitch and was trying to lead the other seeker away.

"Don't be too clever," Draco muttered, watching the boy made a wild dive at the other end of the pitch, luring the other team into spasms of confused flailing even as he pulled up and flew, almost skimming the grass at a speed that surely that broom was not supposed to reach, towards the other end of the pitch. Draco looked over at Hermione who was watching her first-born fly far too quickly and hissed, "Did you take the speed restriction off that broom?"

"That would be cheating," she said back in an undertone. "I may have left out the research showing that three rapid turns to the left in a row exploited a flaw in the design and would let you double the speed limit for approximately ten seconds. It's hardly my fault if the child goes through things on my desk. I've asked him not to."

"Merlin. You're such a quiddich parent."

"YES!" Hermione screeched as her child grabbed the snitch and settled down in front of the referee, an innocent, confused look in his eyes as she squinted at his remarkably speedy broom.

"If she passes that broom – "

"You still owe me a foot rub," Hermione said smugly. "I told you he'd get the snitch in record time today. You didn't say anything about broom flaws impacting the bet."

"You devious little witch," he said fondly, wrapping an arm around her as Scorpius' team was declared the winner of the match. "One foot massage, coming your way."


	4. Library

**Happy Birthday, dcyr.  
>More of a short one-shot than a drabble. I couldn't get this all in in under 500 words. I hope you like it anyway.<strong>

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione liked the back corner of the library. You had to weave through shelves of badly categorized books, books no one ever looked at, then around a corner, and another one, and then there, behind the advanced Arithmancy books, was a nook with a small window and two stuffed chairs. It was cozy, hidden, had light, and, most importantly, was unplottable.

She had no idea why this corner of Hogwarts didn't show up on Harry's map but she was grateful she'd found it. The boys couldn't track her down her, couldn't talk her ear off with quiddich strategies (don't care) or Umbridge's latest sins (don't care) or why Draco Malfoy was a horrible person (no, really, don't care.) I do care, she thought to herself. OK, I don't care about _quiddich_ but I care about the rest of it. Just… not every moment of every day.

She'd taken to snuggling in one of the big chairs with a novel several times a week. It gave her some privacy, hard to come by in a boarding school, and a break from the incessant grind of homework and tests and studying. She loved school, she did. But sometimes a girl just needed a little time with Mr. Darcy without having to explain to Lavender that, yes, it was a muggle novel and, no, that didn't mean it was terrible or pointless.

She'd been looking forward to this break all day (no, _really_, I don't care about quiddich, Ron, so stop already) so she was especially upset to see someone in her chair. Someone blond. Someone…just, no. This wasn't fair.

"What are you doing here," she snapped at Draco Malfoy, who had some pad of paper out he appeared to be sketching on, of all things.

"Get lost," he said, without looking up.

She threw herself into the other chair and glared at him. "Don't you have some kind of evil plot to be off fomenting or something?"

"Nope." He still didn't look up. "Don't you have homework to be doing, if not for yourself than for the losers you pull along behind you?"

"I don't do their homework," she protested, somewhat dishonestly. "And they aren't - "

"Fine. This is a library," he cut her off. "So be quiet or I'll complain and have you tossed out."

She huffed in annoyance but pulled out her book and began to pointedly read. She was reading _at_ him. Bastard, she thought, you can't chase me out of my spot. Just watch me read and _ignore you_. Still, it was hard to resist the pull of Darcy and soon she really had forgotten about Malfoy, or at least mostly, and was reveling in Lizzie's assessment of Darcy. "I could easily forgive his pride if he had not mortified mine…" when the boy across from her suddenly spoke.

"What are you reading?"

She looked up at him in surprise. It was probably the first time he'd ever been even reasonably civil and she wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't looking at her, still had his eyes on whatever he was doing, but a sense of pride in her own courtesy forced her to answer with at least a passing nod to manners; she couldn't let him claim that muggle-borns were rude on top of everything else.

"A muggle novel." She paused and added, "What are you doing?"

"Drawing."

"There isn't an art program at Hogwarts," she protested.

"Well, there isn't a muggle literature class either, but that doesn't seem to be stopping you." He looked up then and she was shocked to see he was actually smiling at her. Not smirking, not leering, just an actual, engaged smile.

It flustered her and she turned her eyes back to her book, tried to find her place. Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to fluster her. Insult her, yes. Hate her, certainly. This shifting of the rules in their long-established relationship made her nervous. She glanced up at him again and he was, thank God, focused on his work again, rubbing something out. He was so wholly absorbed in his sketch she felt it was safe to observe him. He bit his lip when he was concentrating, she'd never noticed that. That sneer that he held between himself in the world had disappeared and in its place was a kind of contentment she'd never seen on his face.

He was much better looking, much more... approachable? interesting?... when he seemed happy.

"How long," she blurted out, then wanted to kick herself when he gave her a 'you're an idiot' look. "How long have you been drawing, I mean," she amended, wishing she'd kept her fool mouth shut.

"My mother engaged my first instructor when I was five," he was looking at her with a hint of that smile again. It was like he was happy to see her, which wasn't even possible. If there was one thing that was certain in this school, it was that Draco Malfoy despised her. If there were two, it was that the feeling was mutual. Wasn't it?

She suddenly wasn't sure. She certainly despised the arrogant, bullying prat who'd gone out of his way to make her miserable for years. It was harder to summon those feelings for the blond boy slouched in the chair across from her who was working with such relaxed pleasure at whatever he was drawing. This boy who was smiling at her as if all he wanted was to see her smile back at him.

"Do you like it?"

"No, Granger, I hate it. That's why I hide away in the back corner of the bloody library to sketch in my free time." He rolled his eyes, a hint of the Malfoy she knew, but seemed, somehow, even with that look, less hostile than usual. More… teasing.

"I just… didn't know that about you," she muttered, trying to meld these two disparate Malfoys into one, coherent person.

"There are a lot of things about me you don't know," he was looking back at that paper again and she wanted to keep his attention, she wanted to see that smile again.

"I'd love to see what you're working on," she said.

"I don't think so," he almost sounded like he was hiding a laugh and that was too interesting to let pass so she stood up and moved behind him and before he could cover the page she saw what he was drawing.

It was her.

There was a study of her eyes in one corner of the page, but the bulk of the sheet was taken up with her, leaning on her hand on a desk in a classroom, a window behind her.

"Fuck," he slammed the sketchbook shut. "Nosy bint."

"You're really good," was all she said, standing there looking down at him, feeling a peculiar combination of shock and confusion and a weird sense of being flattered.

"I should be," he muttered. "You might recall I said I started lessons at five."

She squatted down and rested her hands, fingers laced together, on the arm of the big chair he was in, peered over that stuffed barrier at him. "Do you have any others?"

He looked at her, next to him, and she thought he'd hiss an insult before refusing, before threatening her with what he'd do if she revealed his secret but, instead, he slowly opened the sketchbook back up and began to flip the pages. Snape in class. A tree. Another one of her, this time bundled up in a scarf. He was talented, _really_ talented; this wasn't just the work of someone who'd dutifully learned how to draw. She watched the pictures go by, one at a time, and felt like she was meeting this boy for the first time.

"How long?" she finally asked and he didn't pretend not to understand her.

"Since the Yule Ball."

She nodded, then tapped the one he'd been working on today, the last page in the book, with her finger. "Can I have this?"

He snorted and closed up the book again. "So you can show it to your little sidekicks and…"

"No." She shook her head and wondered if she was about to make a terrible mistake. "As a kind of a way to have a piece of today to keep, to look at."

He looked at her, eyes narrowed, as she leaned across the arm of his chair and, as she came closer he muttered, "This is a bad idea," but he put his book to the side and had his hands on either side of her face anyway; he was the one who closed the last few centimeters between them, put his lips onto hers. The both hovered there, her balanced precariously on the arm of the chair, their lips together, before he broke the kiss, put his sketchbook on the floor, and hauled her all the way onto his lap.

"We can't tell anyone," she muttered and he laughed under his breath before slipping his hands into her hair and kissing her far more thoroughly. "Well," she pulled away from him, "We can't."

He sighed and tipped his head forward to hers. "Do you always ruin moments like this?"

"But – "

"I know," he ran a hand down her arm. "but – "

"This corner is unplottable," she said. Then, uncomfortably, "Maybe I shouldn't assume you'd want…"

"No, I do." He huffed out a laugh. "I've been watching you for a year. Trust me, I do."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Maybe we can start again." He looked at her very seriously, though a grin threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth and his eyes were crinkling together as he kept that smile from slipping away from him, as he held his hand out to the girl – no, young woman – on his lap. "I'm Draco Malfoy. Nice to meet you."

She paused and he almost dropped his hand before she took it and said, slowly, "I'd like to get a chance to know who you really are, Draco Malfoy. I'm Hermione Granger."


	5. The Potions Incident

**Happy Birthday, MomsEscape**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"We're stuck like this _forever_?" Hermione stared at Professor Snape in unfeigned horror.

"Maybe next time, Miss Granger," the man sneered at her, "you'll follow the directions more carefully."

"This is your fault," Draco Malfoy hissed at her.

"Oh no, Mr. Malfoy. This took stunning incompetence, charmingly blended with arrogance, on both your parts." Snape swept away leaving the two students looking at one another, mouths agape, both trying to figure out how to _fix this_.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The effects of the potion did lessen somewhat the first week before stabilizing but there was no 'fixing' it. Draco knew what the damned witch was feeling _all the time_. He assumed she had an equal window into his emotions but hell would freeze over and inferi would take up figure skating before he asked her.

He learned that he could mostly block her out by reciting math facts to himself.

By the time he graduated Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy was very, very good at arithmancy.

. . . . . . . . . .

He passed her in the hallway. "Granger," he said, clipped and almost polite. He'd called her 'mudblood' once since the potions incident; the headache he'd gotten from her emotional flare up had been a brutal lesson on the wisdom of courtesy.

"Malfoy," she nodded back.

Then, just bloody hell, Weasley turned the corner and he was treated to the wave of miserable longing the stupid witch felt whenever she saw the ginger. He wished someone would feel that way about him, a wish the witch, of course, immediately knew. She flicked a glance at him and he muttered, "Not _you_, Granger. Just… someone."

He could feel her relief as well as her tiny bit of disappointment.

Two twos was four. Two threes was six.

. . . . . . . . . .

"What the fuck," snapped Blaise, after Draco kicked the wall and threw a book across the room. "It's like you have PMS or something. Every month you're even more of an arse than usual for a couple of days."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Thank you," he said, standing awkwardly next to her in the hall outside the courtroom.

"For what?" Hermione Granger barely acknowledged he was there; he could tell she wanted nothing more than for him to go away; distance helped dim their mutual awareness, if only a little. Still, some things needed saying.

"For keeping me out of Azkaban."

"Oh please," she finally turned to look at him. "I know if you aren't happy with the way someone made your coffee. Living with you in prison? Feeling everything you'd feel? I'd tear down the walls with my bare hands to get you out to avoid suffering that."

He nodded.

. . . . . . . . . .

He wasn't sure what was worse, knowing when she had sex with Weasley, or knowing how unhappy the man made her in bed. You make her _sad_, he wanted to say to the miserable sot. You need to pay attention and make her happy. For my sake. For her sake.

Of course, that would be admitting he knew, well, _everything_ about the witch, and by mutual, unspoken consent they'd never told anyone about their little potions accident.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When you knew everything about how someone felt, of course, it was hard to hate them. Hard to hate someone whose happiness was quite literally his own.

Impossible not to want to soothe someone when he felt her unhappiness every time that fucking blighter fucked it up again.

Three threes was nine. Three fours was twelve. Three fives was fifteen. Three sixes was wanting desperately to make her feel better. Three sevens was that she even wished he were there sometimes, which almost made it worse. Three eights was that the math wasn't working anymore and he was starting to wonder if alcoholism would be a more effective tactic.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

When she finally- finally! - broke up with Ron, he knew. Of course he knew. As she'd once said of him, he knew when she didn't like her coffee. He certainly knew when she was sitting in her flat, sniveling into a pint of ice cream and indulging in a good wallow.

He made it through one day of her heartache by solving complex equations. All day.

The second day he was at her door shortly after sunrise; he barely made it inside before she flung herself into his arms, sobbing. The need to make her misery, and thus his own, _less_ was immediate and overwhelming so he was rubbing her back and murmuring soothing things into her hair and leading her to settle onto her own couch, which seemed to float, ratty and unattractive, amidst a sea of discarded tissues.

His patience, not one of his stronger personality traits anyway, ended when she wailed, "I loved him."

"No, you didn't," he snorted. She pulled away and glared at him and Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh hell, Granger, I should know. You didn't even like him half the time."

"I just… I wanted…."

"He would have made you miserable." Draco bit the inside of his cheek and considered the awful possibility of Granger marrying that man, of Granger marrying anyone. "He actually did make you miserable a lot of the time. I'm pretty grateful it's over; maybe the next one will actually be nice to you."

She knew, of course.

"It would never work," she said, feeling hopeful and sad and wary and such a slew of other things he couldn't even pick them all apart.

"It might," he said, head tipped the side, watching her. "At least the sex would be better than what you've been putting up with."

He felt her wave of humiliation and immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut. She whispered, in slowly growing horror, "I didn't realize you could…"

"Every time," he admitted.

"I never noticed you…"

"That's because I haven't." She looked up at him at that, disbelief obvious. "I didn't especially want to have an audience. So…"

"But you never told me you could tell - "

"It's a trifle awkward to admit." He pulled her back into his chest, enjoyed how well she fit there, tucked into him. "And it's not like I was going to tell anyone." He shrugged. "Your secrets have been safe with me for… years."

"Yours too," she was nestling into him, taking comfort in his presence, "with me, I mean."

If he were around, he thought, he could actually do this, could comfort her when she was unhappy instead of being forced to grit his teeth in solitary sympathy. He felt immense satisfaction that he'd made her feel better and, feeling her growing tranquility become his own, decided maybe, just maybe, it was better to not put a name to some of the other things he felt. Don't jinx it, he thought. After all, it wasn't like she didn't know anyway.

"Coward," she murmured.

"Oh yes," he drawled, and nudged her chin up so he could see her face, so he could kiss her, red nose, blotchy cheeks and all. Her mouth was so soft, and that awareness of everything she felt was, for once, an asset.

"You needn't be _quite_ so smug," she said after a bit, feeling, he thought, pretty damn smug herself, feeling _happy_.

"It's a failing," he admitted.

"Less talking," she said, "more kissing."

"I can do that," he whispered, and returned to making her happy, to making himself happy.


	6. Tea

**Happy Birthday, Artemisgodess**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"We're out of tea." Draco held the tin out and shook it at Hermione accusingly. "I can live with having to filter water we find in vile little streams, and I can live with having to eat squirrel. I can even live with watching you do that revolting thing where you skin them with one movement; that's almost kind of fascinating in a sick way. But no tea is really totally unacceptable."

Hermione looked at him. She was cold, wet, and tired, and dealing with a pouty Draco was not on her list of 'things I want to do tonight.' "You don't even like tea," she said. "And, besides, we still have cocoa."

"It's just the principle of the matter," he said, "It's one thing to be on the run from a genocidal madman, paired up with a woman who initially despised me for my birth - something I'd like to remind you I had no control over - and to be in constant fear for my life. But not having tea available is just uncivilized."

"I thought we were over the blood status issues," she said, pulling the tent out of her bag and getting ready to set it up.

"Give me that." Draco took the thing from her and began setting it up with a deftness borne of long, varied, and mostly unpleasant experience. "You lack all appreciation for the finer things in life, like sitting down to a nice cup of Earl Grey after darning yet another hole in your lover's wool socks. There. Instant tent." He waved her towards the entrance as he added a warming charm, then another because she looked even more chilled than usual.

"I don't know how to darn," she said, slipping into the dingy, portable magical abode and settling on their cot with a grimace as she pulled off first her boots and then the sock in question.

"Well, you can skin a squirrel. We all have our talents. Hand it over." He held out his hand with an exaggerated version of the arrogant sneer he'd bestowed on her countless times in school and, when she didn't pass him the sock, snatched the stinking thing from her. "How long can we rest," he asked more quietly, cleaning and repairing her sock with homey charms his father would have been horrified to know he knew, much less used; the _1001 Helpful Household Charms_ book he'd stolen from Molly Weasley, mostly out of petty spite, had turned out to be a fortuitous addition to their stores.

"Just tonight," Hermione said, looking at her magical coin, their one link to civilization. "Harry says to keep going north, we'll meet up in the Highlands."

Draco closed his eyes for a moment. North meant colder and cold was almost as dangerous an enemy as Voldemort. When he opened them she was leaning forward into her hands, her shoulders shaking as she tried to control her sobs. "Excellent news," he pronounced grandly, watching her with care. She needed a longer rest than one night, and more food than roasted tree rat. "We can stop at the Malfoy hunting lodge and replenish our tea supply as well as indulge in other civilized delights like tinned biscuits and powdered milk."

Her smile was shaky when she looked up but she managed to quip, "Do you ever think of anything but your own comfort?"

"Not if I can help it." He pulled the map out and charted where they had to go. It would be a few days out of their way but it would be worth it if he could get her into a real bed for a night or two, get some more food, clean clothes. He was the only Malfoy left; no one would think to look for them there and, even if it could be no more than a way-station on their path to meet up with the rest of the Order, at least a short rest would rebuild her strength a little.

"Malfoy," she said, then "Draco..."

"I know, love," he knelt in front of her. "I swore I'd keep you safe and I will."

"Well," she pulled off her dirty gloves and cupped his face in her hands. "You swore a wizard's oath. You have a fairly strong incentive to succeed."

"I'd die of a broken heart if you didn't make it," he said, "I wouldn't need the oath to kill me."

"So dramatic," she teased as she searched his eyes the way she always did on the rare occasions when he admitted his feelings. He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips warm with promises of love, reassurances that this would be over, someday. "I am yours until I die, Hermione Granger," he whispered against her, "Do with that as you will."

He settled back onto his heels and looked at her; she was half asleep already, the effort of the extra warming charm would be worth it if she actually slept well tonight. "I'll set up the wards," he murmured. "You rest, princess."

"Thank you," she said as she lay down. "I don't know what I'd do without you." She paused and he was sure she was asleep when she added, "I promise when this is over we'll stock our cupboards with enough tins of tea that we'll never run out."

"I'll hold you to that," was all he said as he got to work, fighting through his own exhaustion to secure their camp and keep her - keep them both - safe for another night.


	7. Snow

**Happy Birthday, FaeBreeze!**

**. . . . . . . . . . **

He felt the snowball hit him in the back and he spun around to see who'd had the bloody nerve to attack him. There were a couple of first and second years, building some kind of lopsided snowman, but other than them the only other person out was Granger, who had her head down over a book. He rolled his eyes. Only Hermione Granger, swot extraordinaire, would read outside on a snowy day.

Draco Malfoy turned away from her and, almost immediately, felt another snowball hit him, this time on the bum.

He turned around again and the little witch was still bent over her book but he thought he could see a smile tweaking at the corners of her mouth and, oh yes, the snow down at her feet had been disturbed. Scooped up to make snowballs perhaps, he thought, eyeing her.

This, he thought, was war.

He waylaid her in the corridor later as she came back in, the wholly deserted corridor. She stopped when she saw him, leaning up against the wall, obviously planning to block her way. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

"Revenge," he raised his eyebrows and tossed the tightly packed snowball he had in one hand up in the air, then caught it. "You should be more careful, alone with me in a hall almost no one enters, especially after attacking me like that."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tossed her hair and glanced up and down, confirming no one was around, that she was, indeed, totally on her own.

He smiled, a narrow, pointed smile that made her breath catch in her throat. "Wholly at my mercy, Granger. No one to rescue you. Whatever will you do?"

"What," she asked, tipping her head to the side and considering him with a smile of her own, "are my options?"

"Well," he drawled, "you could let me drop this snowball down the back of your shirt or you could kiss me."

"You've stooped to blackmail now?" She walked towards him, hitching her bag up to her shoulder.

"Mmm," he purred down at her as she approached, as leaned into him and turned her head up. "It's as if you don't even know me. I'll stoop to whatever it takes to get what I want."

He lowered his mouth to hers, her lips warm and soft; she parted them almost at once and, after weeks of not being able to so much as touch her, he groaned into her mouth and lost himself in tasting her, in feeling her against him again, even for a stolen moment. "This is going to kill me," he whispered against her, pulling away for a moment. 

"Shh," she pressed her mouth back into his and he nibbled along her bottom lip, and was just about to drop that damned snowball and pull her to him when she deftly tweaked it out of his fingers and slipped it down his own back.

"You little…" he watched her as she danced away from him, realizing she'd cut them off just in time because that group of first years was coming in.

"I love you," she mouthed at him.

"Love you, too," he whispered, feeling the icy snow work its way down his back as she turned the corner and disappeared again.


	8. Marmalade

**Happy Birthday, love bleeds red!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

He wasn't sure what was going on, but she'd turned their small kitchen into a disaster. Sugar was spilled on the counter and floor, there was a pile of chopped oranges on the table and she appeared, rather confusingly, to have pulled away their rinds. There were enough jars out to make the place look like a mad apothecary had taken up residence and two large pots sat on the stove.

Draco edged carefully into the room and into a seat, popping one of the de-rinded orange sections into his mouth. "What," he asked, "are you doing?"

"I am making marmalade," Hermione said, though her jaw was so clenched he could barely understand the words.

"I thought you didn't like marmalade," he said, eating another slice of orange. They were supposed to go to a fund-raiser; she'd been planning to chat up a potential investor in her newest crazy-on-the-surface, sure-to-be-absurdly-successful idea. He's not sure why she's coated in sugar and orange juice instead of getting ready but it can't possibly be good.

"I don't," she muttered, "but apparently Lavender makes amazing marmalade so – "

"So you have to too?" He started to laugh but quickly stopped when she turned to glare at him.

"Yes." She looked like she was about to cry, "She does _everything _better than I do. She's pretty, she's a good cook, she wears makeup and does her hair, she's just little miss perfect and here I am doing nothing worthwhile, just pushing papers around and I know this new thing will never work, and meanwhile she's…she's…" Hermione hiccupped, then blinked a couple of times and looked around. "I kind of sound insane, don't I?"

"I take it you ran into Ron?" Draco narrowed his eyes and studied the woman in front of him. Meeting with Ron almost always resulted in some kind of burst of insecurity; the man seemed compelled to rub in how happy he and Lavender were, how wonderful his idiot bride was, how blissful their mind-numbingly traditional domesticity was. Draco had never really decided whether the blighter was clueless or cruel; either way he wished it was socially acceptable to simply pound the man into the dirt. Still, this seemed a tad extreme even for a post-Ron meltdown. Homemade marmalade? _Everything_ better? Really?

"Yes. And they're expecting _another_ baby."

Draco shuddered. That was why she was so upset; the ridiculous pressure on both of them to have a baby, as if reproducing were the only thing that made life worthwhile, bothered her even when Ron wasn't asking her when _she_ was going to have a baby and that surely she was tired of being nothing but a 'career woman.' It was something he did every time Lavender got pregnant.

"And here," he said, pulling her away from the pot of boiling water, "all you've done is push around papers that, oh yeah, resulted in passing important legislation protecting the rights of werewolves. Oh, and the best-selling book. And the seminar you're teaching at Hogwarts for NEWT students. I guess it's good you have hobbies that keep you busy since you can't do worthwhile things like _making marmalade_."

"Do you ever want a, you know, normal life?" She had buried her head against his chest and he realized she was getting some kind of half-congealed orange goo all over him. Marmalade? Quasi-marmalade? Just… great.

"You mean like marriage and babies and garden parties and some tidy little office job where we each do the same thing every day instead of this crazy high wire act we both do?" He paused, considering that grim possibility; it sounded awful. "Do you?"

"No," she admitted. "I'd be bored out of my mind in a year. Less. But I worry you…"

"Oh, hell no," he kissed the top of her head. "I love you the way you are, all brilliant and distracted and doing at least a hundred interesting things all at once. I love us the way we are. If you wanted to be married I'd be okay with that – more than okay - but please don't ask me to turn into Ron and Lavender."

She paused and looked up at him, then said, "I think I might like to be married, if you…"

He squeezed her. "Done." He paused a moment and added, "You know I'm in this with your for the forever, however you want it. Just, please, I beg of you, no more marmalade."

"It's a deal," she said, then looked around. "Crap. I made a giant mess. And – fucking fuck fuck fuck – I have to meet with Mosk in 1-hour to go over the…"

"I've got it. Go get dressed," he shooed her out of the room and looked around. Marmalade. Everywhere. Just… gah.


	9. Battle

**Happy Birthday, ****soareedustwdgirl29**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco killed the Death Eater right before he could get a shot off and knew – knew – that he was royally fucked because Bella saw him do it.

That knowledge made him ever so slightly hostile.

"You stupid fucking idiot of a witch," he hissed at the bushy-haired nightmare he'd just killed a man to save. "Why aren't you watching what's going on around you?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy," she snapped.

"Was that an offer, mudblood?" he sneered, as he turned and pressed his back to hers so between them they could survey the whole of the battlefield.

"You should be so lucky," she hissed. "To your left, ferret."

He dropped the man who'd been coming up on them as she took out another fighter in front of her, stunning the man and then knocking him out.

"You have to start killing them, you moron," he said, furiously, " or they just come back. This isn't a _game_, Granger. They aren't going to just…"

"I _know_," she circled around with him as they both edged their way towards the exit. "It's just… _hard_."

"Try fucking harder!" He stepped over a body, careful not to look to closely at who it was. Whoever it was, he wasn't in a long black robe, didn't have a mask, so it was one of hers.

One of his now, goddammit.

"Bella saw me," he said, breathing hard.

"She know it was you?" Hermione Granger, fighter for the light, reached around and took his hand and he clutched at her fingers briefly before letting go.

"Yeah. I'm not wearing the fucking mask; I kind of stand out." He reached down and snagged a wand from the body at their feet and shoved it into a bag at his waist. You never knew when you'd need a spare.

"The hair."

"Little miss fucking know-it-all," he hissed, pushing her further towards the door, getting a shot off at another Death Eater coming towards them as he spoke. "We need to _get out_ before she comes back to snag me. Now that she knows…"

"I know. I _know. _I'm working here, Malfoy," she was scanning the room, checking if there were any more of hers that needed back up before she pulled him out of here. "Give me a sec."

"I'm sorry," he muttered, back to the wall, watching her first check, then double-check, that she was clear to leave. "I should have hidden the bloody hair like you told me to. I've cost you…"

"Yeah, well, there're other spies," she pulled him into the hall, away from the battle that was finally slowing down. "Bella being here was a bit of bad luck, I admit, but it's fine. You wanted out of there anyway; you can just move into the safe-house full time. I admit it sucks for me because, really Malfoy, you hog the blankets and..."

"Fuck you, Granger." He pushed that traitorous, pale hair out of his face and glared.

"Is that an offer?" she grinned at him and with a roll of his eyes he gave up and smiled back at her right before she apparated them both back to the safe-house.

Back, he supposed, home.

He didn't hog the bloody blankets. Stupid witch. She did.


	10. Christmas Shopping

**Happy Birthday, ****AmandaxxPlease**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Christmas Eve, she thought as she stood in the interminable line, was the worst time to have to return a present. And it had seemed like such a good idea. The present, that was, not this last minute, miserable shopping trip.

Ugg.

"Granger." The neutral tone stating her name made her nervous and when she turned to see who'd acknowledged her, she sighed.

"Malfoy."

In the years since the war they'd run into one another at assorted functions; their world was a small one, after all. Childhood animosity had long ago given way to the indifferent courtesy adopted by adult professionals who don't know one another well.

"What brings you to this delightful queue?"

She sighed again and turned to engage the man in the social chitchat he seemed determined to inflict upon her. "I thought a red fire truck would be a good gift for Teddy, Harry's godson, but as it turns out Ginny had the same idea so now I'm doing a last minute exchange for a Muggle police car."

"You can't do that," he said, a hint of panic in his voice.

"What?" She frowned at him. "Merlin, Malfoy, I know it's a Muggle thing but little boys love cars and it's not like it's going to contaminate him forever or anything."

"Don't be daft," he ran his hand though his hair, the hand, she noticed upon closer inspection, that, unlike the other one, wasn't holding a plastic Muggle police car. "It's that I'm getting the kid a police car."

"Oh, no," she glared at him and his own plastic toy. "I'm in line first. I'm not going back into that fray to find something else." Then she paused and added, "I didn't realize you knew Teddy."

"He's my cousin." Malfoy was looking at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Of course I know him."

"It's just that..."

"That I'm a prejudiced arse who couldn't possibly be getting a present for the kid because why, exactly?"

"Sorry," she muttered.

"Sorry enough to give up dibs on the police car gift?" He looked hopeful but she snorted and shook her head before turning around to stare to the front of the queue again. The queue appeared to be the world's slowest; five minutes later they'd moved up one spot and he was still behind her, along with at least ten other people who'd piled up behind him.

"You know," she said, turning around again, "it's probably a good idea for a child to have multiple police cars."

He smiled at her, a tight, relieved smile. "Good, because I'm not trying again. This is… this is awful."

"It is," she agreed, studying him. Still blond, still all sharp angles, still in long sleeves that covered the surely faded Mark he'd had burned into his arm as a teenager.

"What are you getting yourself?" he asked, the pleasant tone a bit of a surprise but welcome nonetheless. She didn't have a book with her and having to stand in line next to Malfoy for what looked to be a long wait would be hideously unpleasant if they both just ignored one another.

"Getting myself?"

He shrugged. "It's what my mother always did; do Muggles not do that? She'd say she couldn't rely on my father to have taste so she'd always get herself something. Usually some piece of expensive jewelry she'd been coveting."

Hermione restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Trust Narcissa Malfoy to turn Christmas into an opportunity to indulge her own avarice rather than get gifts for other people. "I think that might be something only your mother would do."

"Possibly." He shifted the toy car to his other hand and added, "What would you get? If you were buying for yourself, what would you get that you knew no one else would get for you."

"I don't know. Chocolate, maybe. Ron tended to get a lot of chocolate frogs but, well, I'm a little old for that. Something good."

"Tended? Does he not bother with even that these days? Familiarity breeding contempt and all that?"

"We aren't together anymore," Hermione said, gritting her teeth and moving a few, blessed feet forward. "He moved on."

"To someone who appreciated his presents of children's candy?" Draco snorted and Hermione flushed. The breakup hadn't been especially cordial and she found herself irritated that Draco Malfoy, of all people, was voicing some of the thoughts she'd had about her ex. He also certainly didn't need to look quite so pleased she'd gotten dumped.

"I suppose." It was more of a mutter than anything else. "Could we change the subject? What would you get yourself?"

Draco shrugged and looked at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "What I want, money can't buy."

"Like what?"

"It's not important." The line moved up again and they both shifted forward.

"Tell me," she teased, interested despite herself, and more than pleased to be able to needle him a bit in turn.

He sighed, then smiled. "Over cocoa, if you'll agree to join me for such whenever this stint in holiday purgatory is over."

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Only if you say yes. Otherwise I am most certainly not."

She smiled at that and there they were, smiling at each other, a little holiday magic while stuck in this wretched store and she heard herself saying, "Yes, okay. Cocoa. That sounds nice."

"Assuming," he added, "we haven't died of old age by the time we reach the head of this queue."

They didn't die of old age but, by the time they had both handled their Teddy Lupin driven purchasing, their feet hurt from standing quite so long. They'd started telling funny stories about their jobs, about Christmas disasters of years past; it turned out Narcissa's tradition of buying things for herself wasn't wholly founded on greed but based on a complicated misunderstanding involving a goat, a spinning wheel and a very large shed filled with straw.

Hermione had had to wipe tears away from her eyes when Draco told her that. He'd watched her laughing and she'd caught a forlorn smile ghosting across his face before he replaced it with a more cheerful mask.

Finally, though, they were out of the shop and into the street, heading for cocoa.

"Hold on," he said. "Can you wait here for a moment; there's one more last minute thing I have to get. Shouldn't take long."

"Sure." She shrugged and then, bemused, watched him go into an expensive chocolatier. Moments later he was out, handing her a box wrapped up with a satin ribbon. "Merry Christmas," he said. "I'm fairly sure you wouldn't have bothered to get any for yourself and while I'm sure it can't compete with a chocolate frog I hoped – "

She cut him off, rising to the tips of her toes to put a small kiss on his mouth. Holiday magic. He looked down at her and said, quietly, "So, I do get what I wanted for myself after all, at least a little."

"Cocoa?" she asked, watching snow start to fall down around them, watching him watch her.

"Absolutely." He held out his arm and she took it. "Now that I've taken chocolates off your list, and since I assume the goat is out, what are you going to get for yourself?"

"I think I've figured it out," she said, leaning into his side as they walked towards the cafe, as he helped her over a slushy spot, "but I'll tell you next year."


	11. Even You

**Happy Birthday, Ev'rdeen**

**. . . . . . . . . . .**

"You're dating _Malfoy_?"

Hermione turned in the street, the force of her spin pulling her fingers out of the hand of the blond in question, to see Ron Weasley standing outside the Quidditch shop, his eyes narrowed in disbelieving accusation.

"Ron!" A smile spread across her face, tweaking her lips up, crinkling her nose and bringing a happy light to her eyes. "I haven't seen you in forever! What an unexpected – "

"_Malfoy?" _Ron asked again, shifting what looked like a wrapped broom from under one arm to the other and struggling to keep his grip on a few other bags. "I mean, I know we split up, 'Mione, but you can hardly be that desperate."

"Nice to see you too, Weasel," Draco Malfoy drawled.

"Shut up, ferret," Ron snapped. "Explain this, Hermione."

The smile had fled Hermione Granger's face and been replaced with a look of some irritation and not a little hurt. "I'd forgotten what you can be like, Ron," she said, her throat so tight the words came out stilted. "Though, since we broke up because, as I recall, you wanted freedom to sow wild oats in as many fields as possible, I don't really see why the discovery I'm with someone else should be such an unpleasant shocker to you. I mean, you didn't really think I was going to sit around wearing the willow for you forever, did you?"

"Ron found fields willing to accept his plow?" Draco Malfoy asked, looking down at his hands as though examining his cuticles. "That surprises me."

"War hero," Hermione explained shortly.

"Ah, yes." Draco murmured. "Though, didn't he abandon you in the woods? Fighting evil was so unpleasant and all."

"He came through in the end," Hermione muttered.

"At least I wasn't a bloody Death Eater," Ron snapped.

"True, that." Draco said, his shoulders stiffening under the admittedly just accusation. No one, he thought, will ever believe how much duress I was under. How unbearable it was, how I nearly broke living with that monster. He glanced up at Hermione, standing with her own shoulders tightened against the hostility of her old friend, a hostility she faced whenever someone new discovered she had forgiven him, that she'd slowly fallen for him, that she'd saved him. No one but her, he thought. Thank all the gods for Gryffindor courage. Thank them all for her unrelenting stubbornness.

"A situation about which you know nearly nothing, Ron," Hermione said.

"Still, _dating_ the bastard, Hermione? Even you can do better," Ron said with a sneer.

"Even me?" Draco could watch Hermione make the decision to give up on mending this particular fence. "Even me." She tipped her head to the side and slowly pulled off her glove and held out her hand, the diamond sparkling in the winter light. "Though, I should correct you. We aren't 'dating', per se. We're planning a wedding. Should I assume you don't want an invitation?" The last was said with obvious malice.

Ron stared at the rock on his ex-girlfriend's hand with first shock, then horror, then obvious resentment. Even with the generous payout from the Ministry thanking him for his war service he'd never be able to afford jewelry like that.

"It was in all the papers," Draco said, forcing an idle tone. "Malfoy heir to wed war heroine and all that. I'm surprised you missed it."

"Ron doesn't read much," Hermione said, lacing her tone with what Draco considered a delightful combination of pity and cruelty. Oh, she really was mad at the git. Furious, even. Hermione considered people who didn't read painfully, inexcusably dull; it was, to her mind, the worst thing she could say about a person.

"So," Ron said as his temper, his jealousy, his resentment all went spiraling up and up, "you went for the rich boy, who cares how evil he was? There's a word for that, Hermione. It's 'whoring.'"

That's when Draco hit him.

It was over almost as quickly as it started, Draco shaking his hand and Ron, packages dropped, holding his own hand to his bleeding, possibly broken, nose. Hermione was looking at Draco with amusement. "You aren't supposed to hit people with a closed fist, you know."

"Muggle fighting," he muttered, still shaking his hand, "not my strongest skill." He paused. "How do you know that, anyway?"

"Learned it the hard way when I punched you when we were kids. Let me see." She took his hand and ran her fingers over it, looking for broken bones, doing a quick wandless healing spell on some broken skin. She turned to Ron, still standing there stanching the blood flow, watching them. She slipped her glove back on and murmured, "Well, as lovely as it was to see you, Ronald, I think we have to be going. We have a dinner reservation and, frankly, you're unpleasant to be around." She turned to Draco, "Shall we?"

"My love," he held out his arm and she took it and they walked away, leaving the other man standing alone in the dimming light, his nose dripping onto the snow.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – Just a reminder to please PM me if you are a regular reviewer and want to get in the queue for your own drabble. Please give me at least a week's notice. Thank you!**_


	12. Wishes

**Happy birthday, hoshiakari7**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco watched her come down the stairs. It's a cliché, Hermione, he thought. The plain, bookish girl transformed into a beauty for the ball. I'd have expected you to be a little less predictable.

Still, he couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Your father would kill her," Blaise said, following his look and handing him a flask. "And I'm being quite literal."

Draco snorted and swallowed a generous mouthful of whiskey the poured some more into his punch. "No. He'd make me do it. He'd think it was a good lesson."

"I stand corrected." The two boys exchanged glances and then Draco leaned up against a pillar, out of the way of the main dance floor and in considerable shadow, and returned to staring at the cleaned up Granger. It's not fair, he thought. I don't even give a shit about the man's fucked up politics but I'm trapped by them anyway.

. . . . . . . . . .

The morning after the party he noticed she looked a great deal less obviously pretty. Her hair had returned to its usual discombobulated mess, she was back in a cheap jumper, and her face was wiped clean of the paint she'd had on last night.

He watched her read the note the owl brought. _You looked beautiful last night, but I think that every day._

He watched her look at Ron, eyes narrowed as she considered and then dismissed even the possibility the git had written her. He watched her look up, across the room and see him, see him looking at her, watched her eyes widen, watched her flush.

He watched her carefully fold the note up and tuck it into a book.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Could I borrow your notes," she asked after class. "I think I missed something. I'll give them back before dinner."

He just shrugged and with a sneer handed them over. "Glad to see you're finally recognizing my inherent superiority."

"Uh huh." She glanced over them. "You have nice handwriting. Distinctive, even."

He felt himself reach out to snatch the papers back but she'd already slid them into her bag.

. . . . . . . . . .

She'd actually made corrections on his notes, the bushy haired nightmare. When he sat on his bed flipping through them, returned as promised, he saw she'd bloody well amended them, added comments, questions.

What was irritating what that her corrections were, well, correct, damn her.

What was magical was that it was like hearing her voice, having her talk to him, just him. She was funny and clever and insightful.

There was one loose sheet of paper, just mixed in with all the others.

_You looked good too. But you always do._

His stomach lurched, his breath hitched, and he brushed his fingers across the words. He folded the note up and put it where none of his so-called friends could get it.

. . . . . . . . . . .

_Cheer for me today?_

He felt like an idiot, like the biggest fool that ever fooled, like the dumbest bloody naïve dupe that ever lived but he dropped the note into her bag anyway. She was _best friends_ with the seeker on the other team, she would never ever…

She caught his eye, his bit of paper in her hand, and nodded, almost imperceptibly, and if he still felt like an utter fool at least now he was a happy fool.

And she did. He watched her, of course, watched her watch him and cheer for him. He was sure none of her friends knew, was sure she didn't exactly yell out his name but, somehow, knowing she was rooting for him - even a little - made him… it made him happy. She made him happy.

And if his father knew, he'd kill her.

He stopped looking at her. Stopped watching her. Saw her, sometimes, when he didn't want to - when he wasn't looking at her, damn it - saw her looking at him with a look of confused hurt on her face but he didn't know what else to do.

. . . . . . . . . .

He took the fucking Mark. Fixed the misbegotten cabinet. Fled the school he'd loved and violated in the company of people who terrified him. He didn't even believe in this fucked up bullshite, but it ruled his life anyway. He was trapped anyway.

_I'm sorry for everything. I wish so many things but wishes don't come true, not for me. I know you can't ever forgive me but I had to say it anyway._ He'd left the note in a book he knew she'd read. Knew she'd recognize the handwriting. Hoped that, maybe, at least she wouldn't hate him.

. . . . . . . . .

"You made it."

He'd slipped out of the Great Hall, away from his parents, away from the father whose awful decisions had ruined every life he'd touched. No one was exactly flocking to his side to offer sympathy or patch up any of his assorted injuries, not that he expected them to, and so he didn't even look up when he heard her voice. She wasn't talking to him. Whatever little he was sure of, he knew that Hermione Granger, heroine, had not just come out of the Hall to find him, to talk to him.

And then she sat down next to him.

"I finally figured it out," she said, apropos of nothing, "when I found the note in the book. You were protecting me. I was so hurt for a while, you know. You'd reached out to me, then just cut me off."

"He would have killed you," Draco said, his voice flat and numb, still not turning his head, waiting for her to go, to abandon him the way he deserved

She took his hand, though, instead of leaving, and he felt that familiar lurch he'd felt whenever he'd watched her, when she'd written him the note he still had, when she'd cheered for him. He turned to look at her, fear and despair and loss and the tiniest bit of hope all there in the eyes that watched her from under his lashes.

She pushed his hair out of his face and smiled at him, the smallest of smiles but still, he thought, not the hate I deserve. He started to cry when she kissed him, the smallest of kisses, just lips brushed across his, just a question.

"Really?" he whispered and when she nodded he broke down and began to really weep, shaking, bent forward with his face buried against her knees, her hands running through his hair and stroking his back. That was how people found them, together. It was how they stayed, too. Not crying all the time, of course, but he found that getting her hands out of his hair was almost impossible; he'd no sooner sit than she'd be twining strands around her fingers. He found he was happier when he could lean on her, something he usually managed by wrapping an arm around her so it looked, to anyone watching them, like he had her pulled against him. She knew, though, that he was really cowering against her side. She'd hold his hand a little more tightly when he shook, press up against him a little more firmly. He found that she was fierce in her defense of him and began to wonder if, maybe, she would have killed his father rather than the other way around.

The papers played it up, naturally, writing endlessly about the romance across class lines, about the mending of war torn fences. He just couldn't take his eyes off her and, he thought, because sometimes we get things we don't deserve, she seemed to feel the same way about him.

It was enough.

It was more than enough.


	13. Games (M rated)

**Happy Belated Birthday. You know who you are.**

**This is M rated. Up until now the fic has been T rated. I've changed it but if you prefer to avoid PWP drabbles, avoid this one.**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Draco wasn't sure how these games had started. Alcohol had certainly been involved, and a dare, but that didn't seem quite sufficient to explain how every Saturday night he ended up in Hermione Granger's bedroom, tied to her bed.

Still, he didn't think he should look this particular gift horse too closely in the mouth. Push too hard and she might send him away; he wasn't sure how comfortable she was with their whole arrangement either. Neither of them seemed inclined to talk about it but, again, it was Saturday and, again, here he was with a blindfold on and his arms bound above his head as she straddled his face.

The rules were fairly simple: get her off and she'd consider returning the favor. Asking nicely helped.

As he licked and probed, suckled and tried with increasing fervor to bring her over the edge she began to gasp. He could feel her lean forward and grasp the headboard as she shuddered through her climax and then sagged against him before slowly working her way down his torso.

"Please," he whispered. "I was good."

"You were," she panted. "Very, _very_ good."

He licked his lips, tasting her still, and strained a little against the straps holding him in place. Such a fiction, of course, as either of them could have freed him with a word; it didn't take exceptional wandless magic to undo a knot. "Please," he said again, feeling his excitement mount as she flicked a finger back and forth across one of his nipples, as he begged her. "Please."

"I never would have thought," she murmured as she lowered herself onto him, as what little thought he had left disappeared into the feel of her around him, "to have Draco Malfoy beneath me, pleading oh so nicely for my touch."

"Anything you want," he promised as she moved, "anything."

Suddenly his wrists were free and he yanked the blindfold off, grabbed her – oh _gods _she was wearing the black bra still – and rolled her so he had he pinned, hands on her upper arms as he thrust into her. "I want you," she said as he watched her through the hair that had fallen into his face.

"The feeling," he muttered as he pumped his hips into her, as he felt her gather under him, ready to fall apart again at his touch, "is very much mutual.

When she did, when he made her scream his name and bite her lip hard enough to draw blood, he paused for a moment and waited. "Do I get bonus points for that," he asked and she muttered, flushed and tousled under him, "Anything you want."

His own climax came shortly thereafter and he collapsed next to her, his arm flung over her body. "Anything I want, huh?" he asked, breathing into her shoulder, smelling her skin.

She shrugged against him, her eyes closed. "What do you want, Draco?"

"You," he whispered. "I want you."

"Really?" Her voice sounded, he thought, like she didn't believe him, didn't trust him. That hurt, given the games they played.

"Really." He pulled her hand into his and squeezed her fingers.

"Stay?" she asked and, heart in his throat, he nodded and pulled himself more closely to her. "For as long as you want," he said. "For as long as you'll let me."


	14. Defector

**Happy Birthday, Analena!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

The safe house was grimy, dank, and the food was inadequate. Draco Malfoy hated it and had taken to listing the things that made this new prison – because he was under no illusion he was anything other than a prisoner – better than the last one. Voldemort wasn't here. Hermione Granger was.

It was a short list but, as he'd reflected more than once, it made the difference between utter hell and a place he merely loathed.

Granger seemed uncomfortable with him which, given she'd asked to be his keeper, given the things she said to him when he was in no condition to respond, should have amused him but he couldn't really rally to feel anything as light as amusement anymore. He knew she felt sorry for him, knew she had her own demons, but since she was one of the two things on his list of 'things that make this better' he couldn't regret she was stuck with him.

Today she was, as usual, bent over a crumbling book researching something. He'd offered to help but Weasley had sneered, "like we'd trust anything you suggested" so he'd swallowed his retort and shrugged. I brought you everything I could smuggle out, he thought bitterly, watching the woman work. I brought you the location of a bloody horcrux, for fuck's sake, and in return I get locked in a room with Hermione Granger, not even allowed to help her research. I get my life, and that's it.

It was, he conceded, still better. The comparison really only highlighted how very bad things had gotten before he'd left.

"I'm sorry," she said, apropos of nothing and he twitched in his seat. She rarely spoke to him, just read her books while he watched her, watched the wall, watched out the window. One day, snow had fallen. That had been a good day.

"Why," he asked, not expecting her to explain. He'd stopped expecting anything.

"Ron's such a prat," she muttered and he laughed. "It's just," she turned and looked at him, "you risked so much and no one even trusts you enough to let you wander the house." He stared at her face, watching the light hit her cheekbones, watching the way a frizzy tendril had escaped her sloppy braid and hung in her eyes.

"It's not your fault," he finally said. "And I'm an arsehole. Got out to save my own skin, as your Ron has reminded me at dinner every night."

She shook her head. "There were easier ways to save your skin than collecting everything you did and bringing it to us; those things, that information… it's mattered and he knows it. He's just…" she stopped and bit her lip. "He's just being unfair. And he's not 'my Ron.' Hasn't been since…. Hasn't been for a while."

"Well," Draco looked away at last, "I'm sure the regular reminder that that psychopath can reach out and yank my strings doesn't help." She was the one who sat with him when he screamed because the Mark burned, which it did far too often. She was the one who held cool cloths to his face. She talked to him then, said things he wasn't sure he believed but that he held onto anyway. He talked to her then, if begging and confessions counted as talking. Her job was to watch him and he supposed he should be grateful she took that duty seriously enough to actually go through the motions of caring; she could have just sat back and watched as he suffered. Her Ron certainly would have.

"Why don't more people leave," she whispered, almost talking to herself. "He's hurting you though that Mark just because he can, I'm sure you aren't the only…"

He stopped her. "Some people are too afraid to go but most really believe in his foul bullshite."

"Like you did," Hermione said. He was still just looking out the window but, if one could be said to feel another person's stare, he felt hers.

"Like I did," he agreed.

"But you don't now," she added.

He huffed out a tiny puff of air before he slouched back even further in his chair. "No. I don't now." Not, he thought to himself, that it matters, because sooner or later the torture will manage to kill me through the Mark as I sit here, locked in this room, and everyone will be relieved I'm gone, the tremendous social awkwardness of having a turncoat Death Eater in the attic erased.

"I think," Hermione Granger was saying, interrupting his thoughts, "I may have found the answer."

"The answer to what?" He looked back at her, mild interest struggling to the surface of his passivity. "How to make light and fluffy pie crust? You need to keep the butter cold. How to break up with your Ron? Tell him you're too good for him. How to rid the world of Voldemort? Unfortunately, I've got nothing there."

She smiled, actually smiled at him. "Glad to see your natural snarkiness seems to be coming back. And I knew about the butter, thanks. Can't spend every summer with Molly Weasley without learning something about cooking."

"If you know how to cook why is the food here so bad?" he carped at her and she laughed again and he felt like the sun had bloody well come out and found he was smiling back at her.

"I don't do the cooking. I look after you," she said with a certain faux primness. "You're a higher status project." She crossed the room and was suddenly in front of him.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted her to touch him or was afraid she would. She hadn't, not when he wasn't raving. They'd lived together since he'd defected, locked in this room most of the day, her reading and him having fits. They went back and forth between moments of unbearable intimacy, where she saw him stripped bare and in agony, and long stretches where they politely ignored one another, ignored the things they both said when he was being tortured through his Mark. She was changing the rules, talking to him like this when he wasn't screaming.

"I broke up with Ron already, by the way, so I don't need your advice on that." She was still right in front of him and she had that book in her hands.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"Because, among other reasons, he was being a fucking prat," she said and then she shoved the book at him. "I've found it, though."

"What, Granger?"

"I think I can break his connection to you," she said. When he didn't react, didn't respond at all, she hurried on, "The scar will still be there, but he won't be able to reach you through it. He won't be able to hurt you anymore, Draco."

He sat in silence for a long time, listening to the sound of her voice saying his given name. He wanted to ask her to say it again but instead said, "That's what you've been researching in here? Not battle spells? Not how to defeat Voldemort? You've been trying to figure out how to save me?" She nodded and he said, "You're an idiot. I'm not worth your time, I'm not important."

"You are to me," she said.

He let that settle across him for a moment. "That's why Ron hates me," he said and she laughed.

"Ron's hated you since you were eleven and acted like a snotty rich kid at him. My feelings about you are – "

"What feelings?" he interrupted her. "I'm _worthless_ Granger, you know that better than anyone. Don't waste your feelings on me."

"Too late," she yanked the book back. "Do you want your Mark severed from that madman or not?"

"Yes," he snapped, "of course I do. I'm not the idiot here."

"Debatable," she snapped back.

They glared at each other until Draco drawled, summoning all the arrogance and disdain he could muster, "No one's going to let me out, are they, let me help, not even with this impressive bit of magic you're going to do to really free me from him."

"Probably not," she admitted. "At least not for a while. I keep arguing with them but…"

"And you'll still be locked in here with me, keeping an eye on the very dangerous Death Eater lest I sneak out and steal more than my fair share of oatmeal or run back to the people who would kill me on sight if I were very, very lucky?"

"Yes," she drew the word out and looked at him and, very slowly, her lips began to move up into a smirk that matched his own.

"I have, Granger, another research project I might suggest you undertake, what with those feelings you have and all."

"Draco," she said again and he closed his eyes.

"I'm not ready to say it to you when I'm not half out of my mind," he said, almost too softly to be heard. "I will be, someday."

"I know," she said, and he felt her take his hand. "I can wait."


	15. Question

**Happy Birthday, Luvnee!**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

"Why are you on the floor?" Hermione looked up from her book. When she'd started reading the sun had been out, her tea had been warm and Draco had been doing something in the bedroom that seemed to involve pacing and muttering to himself and, really, it was making her nuts so a retreat into a book had seemed like a good choice for a rainy Saturday afternoon.

Now the sun was down, the tea was cold and Draco was kneeling at her feet, clearly somewhat put out by something.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" he asked her.

"Willa Cather," she said by way of explanation, holding the book out.

"You might be the least romantic woman I've ever known," he muttered. "This is what happens when you grow up with Potter and Weasley as your best friends. No sense of romance at all."

"I don't see what you have against Cather," she frowned at him. "I mean, it could be worse, it could be Flaubert or something. Death by rat poison."

"I wasn't talking about the book, though your ability to get lost in them is impressive."

"You agree, though, that Cather is more romantic than Flaubert?"

He stopped to consider, distracted from his actual goal. "I don't think so," he said at last. "Sure, Madame Bovary has the rat poison thing, but Thea barely acknowledges the idea that a relationship might add something to her life."

Hermione smiled smugly as she watched him quickly compare the two books. Draco Malfoy, Muggle literature aficionado. That was all her doing. When they'd first moved in together he'd complained at considerable length about the number of books she owned. "Have you ever heard of libraries?" he'd groused. "I like to own my books," she'd smiled at him and so he'd spent the first week in their flat installing shelves all along one wall and the second week helping her unpack her collection and sort them. She'd realized she loved him – really, truly loved him – when they started to argue about classification systems and he'd told her anyone who sorted by criteria as unimportant as author's name was clearly an idiot and did she want curry or fish for dinner.

Now he plucked the book out of her fingers and slipped a torn bit of newsprint in her spot. She'd had to break him of dog-earing the pages and he'd rolled his eyes at her for weeks when she'd smoothed corners up and put bookmarks in but now he just automatically reached for some scrap of paper to mark his place.

Or, apparently, her place.

"You," he said, still on the floor, "have totally spoiled my carefully rehearsed speech about how much I love you and how I cannot live without you. I had poetry in it, Hermione. Actual poems lauding your beauty. Stanzas about how honored I'd be if – "

"Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?" She narrowed her eyes.

"Well," he said, "I WAS but you clearly weren't that interested so I think I'll lower my sights a bit and ask whether you'd be interested in going to the Tate tomorrow."

"Yes," she said.

"Yes to the Tate?" he asked, cocky smirk firmly in place, trembling fingers wrapped around the small box in his pocket.

"Sure," she said, and reached for her book, eyes still watching him, waiting.

"Don't suppose you'd wear this?" He held out the box with feigned nonchalance. She took it, hands shaking a bit, and opened it, looked at the ring, looked back at him, looked down at the ring again.

"Yes," she said, "I suppose I could. Would. Will."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – **So this is where I shamelessly pimp my other fics as well as remind you that if you are one of my lovely reviewers and want to be in the queue for a drabble of your own to please make sure to send me a PM with the date with at least a week's notice, but don't be shy about telling me NOW about something that doesn't happen for a bit.


	16. Sorting

**No birthdays. Just a snippet that fell out of my brain. It's like the junk drawer, my brain, filled with stuff you can't quite throw away but which has no practical use.**

**. . . . . . . .**

Hermione Granger knew all about the houses at Hogwarts. After all, she'd read _Hogwarts: A History_ cover to cover. Multiple times. She'd spent some time thinking about what house she'd be sorted into.

Slytherin was clearly out; their apparent obsession with bloodlines combined with her being Muggle-born made that a no. She didn't think she was nice enough for Hufflepuff; it seemed like a dreadful thing to say about oneself but she was reasonably self-aware and she didn't think she had quite the right spirit for that house. She'd considered Ravenclaw; she knew she was bright enough and that seemed like a sensible result, if maybe a bit predictable. What she really wanted, though, was Gryffindor. To be brave and bold sounded wonderful.

And beloved. She could tell that the Gryffindors were the darlings of the school, even with a quick glance. They were laughing at their seats, all golden and glorious, as she waited, standing with the boys she'd met on the train as they scared themselves into ridiculous fits over the sorting ceremony. She'd never really had friends, not good friends, and that's what she wanted more than anything.

She figured it would probably be Ravenclaw but still hoped for Gryffindor.

When the hat barely made it on to her head before it shouted out 'Slytherin' she had to ask it to repeat itself. _Off you go, girlie_, it said. _You'll be great in Slytherin._

She stood up and looked, shakily, at the table of her new house. She'd only taken a few steps towards them when the booing started. She spun around and some ginger boys at the Gryffindor table were actually booing her. She pinched her lips together and looked back at the boys she'd met on the train. Neither would look at her.

Oh, this was just _great_. Bloody hat.

She walked with brisk steps towards the table she'd been assigned, sat down with a loud thunk and glared at the rest of the room. "Don't mind them," an older girl said. "Fucking arseholes, all of them. You're one of us now."

"I'm Muggle-born," Hermione snapped out, figuring she might as well get it over with.

There was a pause – long enough to be incredibly awkward and for her to consider whether dropping out was an option - until a plain girl in her year shrugged and, as the snotty blond boy from the train sat down, one of the older boys said, "Yeah, well, you're _our_ Muggle-born now. We take care of our own."

She heard some other kid mutter, "We have to."

"Muggle-born?" the blond kid looked at her and she sighed, expecting some kind of harassment, but he stuck out his hand. "Draco Malfoy."

"Hermione Granger," she said, taking his hand. He yanked her closer to him on the seat to make room for a lanky boy with dark hair.

"Theo," he said. "We got a Muggle-born in our year."

"Sweet," was all the newest boy said.

"I saw you with Weasley on the train," Draco continued. "It was his older brothers that booed you," he added and she clenched her jaw and glared back across the room at the golden, laughing bastards. "What's he like?"

There was another pause and she could tell their end of the long table was listening to her answer. "He chews with his mouth open," she said, slowly, "and he mostly seemed to want to suck up to that Potter kid."

Laughter floated up the table and she heard someone say, "Figures. Loser."

"Want to get even for the booing?" The dark haired boy had shoved further over to make room for a dark skinned boy and now she was pushed right up against Draco's side.

"Yeah," she said. "Got any ideas?"

He grinned at her, a mean little grin, and she found herself grinning back. Hufflepuff would, after all, have been a bad fit but this, well, she could do this. The plain girl across the table leaned forward to hear and Hermione was tucked into a group of cheerful, plotting delinquents. A group, she thought, of friends.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__I was thinking about how peculiar it is that a magical hat has so much power in the Harry Potter world, and how one little sorting change could have made a tremendous difference in the outcome of the story. Take away the brainpower of the golden trio and shift her loyalty to a different set of kids who accept her and suddenly you have a whole different trajectory. That's a lot of power to give to a hat._

_ETA: I think I may expand this one into a full story, following her along the years, because my beta told me to and I do everything Shealone says._


End file.
